


take a whisk

by montygreenbean (bottomoftheocean)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bellarke, Cooking, Cooking Lessons, F/M, Fluff, Neighbors, Pancakes, and his number, bellamy gives her advice, clarke has no idea how to make pancakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 12:50:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16241969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottomoftheocean/pseuds/montygreenbean
Summary: Clarke Griffin is new to the apartment complex and doesn't have the right ingredients for pancakes. She knocks on the door across the hall to ask for an egg, only to learn that 1) pancakes are a lot more complicated than she thought, and 2) Bellamy Blake is her neighbor and, well, she'd listen to him teach her how to make pancakes on repeat any day of the week.or, a Bellarke!neighbors au where Clarke is a terrible cook and Bellamy is not, so he helps her out.





	take a whisk

**Author's Note:**

> hi friends!  
> i whipped this little fic up in a couple hours thanks to a tumblr post i saw on pinterest––also, i've been thinking about pancakes all day and it seemed like the perfect day to write up a fic about pancake-making.
> 
> as always, the characters are not mine; they belong to kass morgan and the cw!  
> i hope you enjoy!

The knock at his door snaps Bellamy’s eyes away from the television and causes him to spill potato chip crumbs across his lap and the couch around himself. He swears quietly and brushes the mess to the floor, vowing to sweep it up after his unexpected visitor has left.

As he walks to the door, he tosses a T-shirt over his head, in case whoever is at the door is someone other than his sister or best friend, and his shirtless appearance would make the situation terribly awkward.

And, he soon learns, the person knocking is not, in fact, Octavia or Miller. It’s a short blonde he’s never seen before, looking incredibly apologetic for even having come to the door. Her blue eyes scan his face, perhaps for a sign of irritation, and she seems relieved to not find any. However, she still says nothing, leaving Bellamy confused.

“Can I help you?” he asks gently, trying not to spook her into telling him nevermind.

“Yes!” she exclaims, immediately wincing at the too-high decibel she’d spoken in and lowering it significantly. “Um, I was wondering if maybe you had an egg I could borrow? I just moved in across the hall and I wanted pancakes, but I haven’t had the chance to go shopping yet, so I don’t have too much that requires a refrigerator…” 

“Yeah, I can definitely give you an egg,” Bellamy says. “Go ahead and come in while I grab it for you.”

The woman obliges. “I’m Clarke, by the way,” she says as she crosses the threshold.

“Bellamy,” Bellamy replies with his head stuck in the fridge, and then asks, “Do you have butter, or do you need that too?”

“Wait, fuck. I need butter too?”

Bellamy closes the fridge door, egg in hand. “Of course you need butter. At the very least, you’d need it to grease the pan.”

“I was just gonna use spray oil for that…” Clarke admits.

Bellamy stops, putting the egg gingerly onto the counter, and turns to face her. “You get a much more even coat of the pan if you use a pat of butter, just for future reference.”

Clarke looks embarrassed. “So, uh, it’s come to my attention that I have no clue how to make pancakes.”

Bellamy chuckles. “Well, Clarke, that strikes me as something you’ll have to figure out before you get to have pancakes.”

“Can you, like, walk me through the steps real quick?” she asks.

“For starters, you’ll need to make sure you have all the ingredients––and yes, I will also give you whatever you don’t have.” He rattles off a list of ingredients from the recipe Octavia and he had used since they were kids, and Clarke grows more and more agitated with each new thing he lists.

“Fuck, I thought it was just, like, flour, sugar, water, and an egg. I was gonna make the most disgusting excuse for pancakes the world has ever seen.”

Bellamy can’t help but laugh at her, and she pouts almost out of instinct. “Okay, clearly you’re going to need some help,” he says. “Let me come to yours and I’ll teach you so that you never have to subject yourself to whatever you just told me you were gonna do.”

“God, please do.” Clarke groans. “I knew I wasn’t good at cooking, but I didn’t realize I was  _ this  _ bad.”

Bellamy digs through his cupboards to find all the ingredients, and the two of them carry it all across the hall into Clarke’s apartment. He observes his surroundings as they enter. Where his apartment looks well-lived (and, if he’s honest, in need of a deep clean), hers is stiff and new. A few small decorative items line the mantel, but most of her belongings are clearly still in boxes strewn across the space and nothing looks quite ‘homey’ yet.

“How long ago did you move in?” he questions, curious. He hadn’t noticed any commotion outside his door lately, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t just missed it.

“This is the fourth day, I think?” Clarke responds, counting on her fingers. “Yeah. I spent most of the first couple days on just finding out which of my things were in which boxes, so now I’m actually trying to make the place look like someone lives here. Figured cooking and making a mess was a nice intermediate step towards ‘lived-in.’” She giggles, finding her own joke funny. It makes Bellamy smile. 

He hasn’t been thinking about it, really. He’s been invested in his favorite pancake recipe and helping this woman be less helpless around a stovetop and mixing bowl. But her laughter brings it to the forefront of his mind for a few moments––she’s cute. Like, really cute. Bellamy trips over his own foot and nearly drops everything he’s holding because he’s paying too much attention to her. It only makes her laugh harder, and then he’s laughing too, if only to push that thought out of his mind.

Clarke bends down to rummage through the box that rests on the floor in front of the oven, coming back up with a pink mixing bowl, a set of measuring cups and spoons, and a whisk. “Yes?” she asks.

Bellamy simply nods, spreading the ingredients out on the counter. She places the bowl in front of him and turns to wash her hands. He follows suit, wrinkling his nose at the smell of her hand soap. “You’re one of those people who likes fake linen scent?”

She scoffs. “You’re one of those people who doesn’t? And I’ve let you into my apartment, too. How very dare.” He looks at her with an eye roll, and she sticks her tongue out in retaliation, setting herself off into another fit of giggles.

To prevent himself from doing more stupid things, Bellamy starts to measure out the flour. Clarke watches him, biting her lip softly as she tries to focus on the measurements.

“You might want to write this down so you can make these yourself next time,” he says, though he really wouldn’t mind if she came knocking on his door whenever she wanted pancakes.

As if reading his mind, she says, “Why would I waste the time and the paper when you have the recipe in your brain and you’re five feet across the hall?”

“Fair enough,” he concedes. 

Every so often, Clarke asks a question about Bellamy’s method, and he answers, but for the most part, they work in silence. He lets her whisk the ingredients together since she at least seems confident in that, and somehow ends up with flour in his hair. But he doesn’t mind.

He’s enjoying spending time with her, even if it is just because she’s possibly the most clueless person he’s even met in terms of the kitchen. So he slows his pace a bit as he turns the burner on underneath the greased pan. “Make sure you use  _ low  _ heat for this, Clarke. It takes longer, but otherwise you’ll just burn them.”

She nods vigorously, getting a little closer to the stove, and to him, to see better what he’s doing. “The burner is only on 3,” she frowns. “Are you sure it can’t be a little higher?”

“Not unless you want the batter to spatter everywhere and your pancakes to be charred and gross.”

She giggles and says, “Batter, spatter. You’re a poet and you didn’t even know it.” Her hand rests on his bicep for just a moment, but he feels the touch linger for much longer.

When the first pancake is ready to flip, Bellamy decides to show off a little. “Don’t try this at home, kids,” he says, and proceeds to jerk the pan in such a way that the pancake flips and lands perfectly in the center.

“Jesus,” Clarke says, obviously impressed. “I can’t even do that when I’m using a damn spatula.”

“Practice makes perfect, Princess.”

He feels her stiffen momentarily beside him at his nickname. He has no idea what possessed him to say it, but he doesn’t regret it in the slightest. Maybe it was her Cinderella-like features? He doesn’t know. He ignores it and continues making cakes. Eventually Clarke tries her hand at it on her own––her flip is messy, but she doesn’t burn it and they both count that as progress.

They finish up and are left with a tall stack of pancakes on a plate.

“Well, I’d invite you to stay and eat with me, but I don’t exactly have a dining table that isn’t currently in an IKEA box,” Clarke says apologetically.

“Oh no, don’t worry about it. I’ve got to go clean up a little in my own apartment, actually,” Bellamy replies. “But let me know how you like them, yeah?”

“Oh, definitely. Expect a knock in a couple hours after I’ve eaten my way into a food coma.”

He laughs. “Something tells me you aren’t going to eat a dozen pancakes on your own in one sitting.”

“No, you’re probably right. Five, maybe,” she amends, sticking her tongue out again.

“Five is a fair amount. Maybe I’ll have to come get some later if they’re of acceptable quality.”

“Yeah, I mean, I don’t usually answer my door unless it’s my mom, but I might make an exception for my attractive, curly-haired neighbor.”

Her use of the word _attractive_ does not escape his notice, but he forces himself to not blush. “I could just text you, also… that is, if you’re willing to give your attractive, curly-haired neighbor your number.”

He leaves five minutes later with Clarke’s phone number, a date scheduled for the following weekend, and a dazzling grin on his face. And if he’s too busy texting her about his pancake recipe to remember to sweep up the chip crumbs… well, that’s a problem for another time.

**Author's Note:**

> if you liked, please please feel free to leave comments and kudos!   
> i love to hear what people think about my writing so please do leave feedback!
> 
> ~ mikki


End file.
